


let loss reveal it

by scrapbullet



Series: all these things they will change [4]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Domestic Bliss, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Ficlet, Fluff, M/M, Not Beta Read, Post-Finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-28
Updated: 2017-04-28
Packaged: 2018-10-25 01:18:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10753737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapbullet/pseuds/scrapbullet
Summary: A bath is a luxury not oft afforded. To sink down into the warm water is sinful, even, when the sense-memory of long weeks at sea lingers like the scent of rain after a storm.





	let loss reveal it

A bath is a luxury not oft afforded. To sink down into the warm water is sinful, even, when the sense-memory of long weeks at sea lingers like the scent of rain after a storm; a salt-dew that dries into crusted jewels and stiffens worn cotton and linen, intermingling with sweat and blood and tears after numerous battles - whether they be physical or mental, caught in the Doldrums.

After the fall, it is difficult for James to separate himself from the man he once was. From the life he once lived with such devout passion. Thus, even the smallest nuance of his life with Thomas is a reminder of Before - where even the business of bathing oneself leads to nostalgia. Water, however, surely runs through James’ veins as akin to blood, as a part of him now - so far inland that the predominant odour in the air is of livestock - as it has ever been. 

The sea is James, and James is the sea.

The tin tub, filled with water brought from the well at the edge of their property, is not the sea, and that is rather the problem.

“If the wind were to change direction, I rather fear your face will remain that way,” Thomas says with a smile, settling himself down onto a stool at James’ left. Plucking the soap from James’ hands he dips a rag into the water and rubs it against the misshapen bar to produce a rich lather. “What could have possibly occurred in the twenty minutes I was gone to incite such a glare, hm?” 

“Just thinking,” James grunts, though the heavy weight in his chest eases at the sight of his lover. Thomas, with his mere presence, lifts the spirits and warms the heart, and although James longs for the sea it is nothing in comparison to the desire he feels for Thomas’ company. “How are the lambs?”

Thomas, rubbing the soapy cloth over James’ shoulders, utters a soft, wordless murmuration. No blind fool is he - a distraction is a distraction, and James has never been one to speak his mind unless prodded. “No different than the last time you asked, dear heart. The ewes are natural mothers.”

Sighing with pleasure, James turns as a flower does to the sun. “Are you saying I’m a worry-wart?” 

The cloth slips lower, idling over the jut of James’ collarbone and lower still, tracing an old scar. Almost lovingly does Thomas wash James, pausing only to rinse the wash cloth clean and apply more soap - aromatic, laced with dried mint. “You are not the most confident of shepherds, no.”

No, indeed. This life is as new as the babes in the birthing-shed - sweet lambs slick and steaming in the chilled air, struggling to stand, to live and breathe and suckle from their mothers’ teat. So new, and yet _not_ , when Thomas is friend and companion and lover, all; so eager to learn.

Wet fingers cup his chin and James startles. His eyes had drifted shut in the hazy evening and Thomas - shirt sleeves rolled haphazardly to the elbows and baring tanned forearms - leans in, a kiss as supple and relaxed as the state James resides in. “You go elsewhere, so often,” Thomas utters against James’ lips, wistful. 

“I’ll always come back to you, though,” James replies, and captures those tempting lips once more, sucking the plush lower lip until Thomas exhales. “How can I not? You..” another slide of lips and tongue and passion, Thomas pliant and exquisite, “…mean more to me than words can say. _Thomas._ ” His voice cracks, suddenly desolate.

Thomas draws away, albeit reluctant to go far. For a brief moment he looks at James with sincere sadness, but it passes, for with seeming decision he rises to unbutton his shirt and undresses quickly, efficiently. Ushering James forward Thomas slips in behind, slopping water over the edge of the tub but uncaring, nonchalant, of the mess he has made, for gathering James into his arms is his only concern. “I love you, James McGraw, as did our beloved before she parted this world. Let go of your guilt, _please_ , before it consumes you.”

James clutches the anchoring arm over his chest, and shudders. 

Such things are easier said than done, and if it is one thing that James does well it is wear his remorse like a shroud.

“She loved you,” Thomas implores, holding him close. Such a comfort, Thomas’ embrace - as solid and unmoving as the land in which they toil over, day after day, promising quiet peace. “She loved you.”

The water long grows cold before they rise, retreating to the safety of their bed.

**Author's Note:**

> It's spring, and thus spring forth the lambs. And new beginnings. The regret remains.


End file.
